Once, When I Return
by EleanorKate
Summary: France, World War 2. Peter finds himself lost but discovers more than he thought he would ever find. AU. NOW COMPLETE
1. Chapter 1

Peter looked upwards at the tower of the town Church; the once golden hands adorning the clock face so tarnished he could barely see them against the filthy, scarred countenance as it loomed above him.

The time was wrong, he was sure of it as his mind wandered, conscious unwilling, to what might be happening at home. He didn't like to think too much of Poplar anymore; couldn't even remember how it felt to leave as he was hauled by the shoulders into the back of the truck. It was too far away in mind and space to be any comfort that it ought to have brought him in this unexpected place he now was forced to call home for however long it may now be. Now, though, standing in this place he would never know, it was all that consumed him.

It must be late evening in Poplar if the sky was this dark here. Mum and Dad perhaps getting ready for bed; Mum with her flowery pink quilted dressing gown with the hem half down and Dad with those tartan slippers that needed throwing out, pottering around and locking doors. Would they be wondering where he was? Were they hearing the squeal of bombs, explosions in the distance as they battered their precious memories of this city that they grew up in? Were they even still there? Were they gone and no-one had sought to tell him and he really was as thrust aside as he felt?

He shivered. Peter was cold, barely remembering the feel of his own mattress, recollections tucked away that were fading no matter how hard he tried. The satiating taste of hot milk laced with cinnamon and a teaspoon of honey that Mum would make when winter drew in sprung to mind. It always helped him sleep as a kid; warming him from the inside out and how he could do with that now, even a drop on his lips would take this almost ethereal chill as it bit and tore away at his flesh, boring into him as he stood in this half abandoned street wondering how he got here.

Mum's cooking; Dad leaning over her shoulder trying to pinch a roast potato and throwing it between his hands when it was too hot. It was always the same.

Peter didn't like thinking of things like that anymore, not knowing if he may ever experience them again, but tonight his mind was running hell bent on provoking this emptiness that gouged its way into his middle. Perhaps it was the fact they were here now; stationed to wait for a night, perhaps two before they moved on and he had time to ruminate. It made his blood run to think he may never see them again; dead in a ditch or one of those soldiers who would be mourned forever with no funeral to call his own. _'Unable to identify'._ It was no use being coy about it and the faster he learned that, perhaps it was better. Maybe he could survive better that way if he were to at all.

A truck steamed past him, a cigarette butt thrown from the back and landing at his foot. Peter stamped on it, grinding it into the cobbles until the orange spark was no more amongst the dense mud on his boots. Pain struck him for a moment sending vicious arrows up his leg. That blister on the sole of his foot, covering it in fact, red raw, bleeding, caused by boots that didn't fit and three pairs of socks, keeping the cold and damp away but tearing off his skin like a sharp knife.

Peter looked aloft again trying not to hear what was going on in the unlit alleyway to his side. The sky was a strange shade between orange and grey so vast and so devoid of any kind of hope as it almost overpowered him. Nothing lived up there anymore but fighters and bombs; even the clouds had scurried away and birds would no longer drift above him floating on currents of air.

Now that air was acrid, burning; a Bonfire Night of epic proportions with the hue around him of destruction with no end in sight. The smoke settled on his chest, scratching his insides, but he couldn't cough. That was the sign.

Under a filthy uniform and pack, mud and skin that had not been bathed properly for days, or even weeks, Peter continued to stand by the darkened lamppost leaning on it as it pressed earnestly between his shoulder blades. It was the only thing that was anchoring him to the ground, the hard cast iron the only thing upon which he could focus.

On watch he was, but not for reasons of any official nature this time. Stuck here, in a town whose name he could not pronounce and not entirely sure of its location at all, as he acted the dutiful sentry for his mates.

Another truck grumbled past, groaning under the weight of the gang of men crammed in the back, this time a bottle flying and smashing behind it, glass twinkling in the moonlight as he watched it splinter on the cobbles. It only made him think of collecting lemonade bottles and taking them back for the coins that would be spent on sweets and he shook his head quickly; trying to purge the memory as it rudely jumped into his mind.

_Stop thinking of home, you stupid idiot. You're nineteen for Christ's sake, nineteen! You're a grown man, not a schoolboy and you are here to fight. Hear that? Here to give your life if you have to for your King and Country and you are thinking of lemonade bottles? You've already shot a man – three in fact – point blank in the head, in the chest, anywhere you could find to make sure they were dead. It was you or them and you chose you. You had to. One more step to seeing your lemonade bottles and drink your cinnamon milk again? Stop thinking. You're not that child. You'll never be that child again._

Peter swallowed and felt a hand clap him hard on the back, lost and not hearing the stomp of feet behind him as he failed in tonight's duty. He shot up, standing to attention, seeing one of his Sergeants pausing beside him, the last drags of a burning cigarette in his hand.

"Off duty, Noakes" his Sergeant smiled, throwing the cigarette and, much like Peter had done, grinding it into the ground under equally muddy leather.

"Yes Sir" Peter smiled, shoulders dropping, trying to ignore the burning pain searing in his boot at stamping his foot against the earth again.

"Am I to take it that Privates Cooper and Johnson are up that alley with those two 'ladies' that were hanging off the truck if you're on guard duty?" the Sergeant asked, nodding his head behind him at the pitch dark.

Peter dipped his head, seeing his Sergeant lean closer to him, slinging his arm around the younger's neck. He could smell beer on his breath he was that close. "Dirty little bastards they are too. Glad you're out here Noakes lad. Sensible head on your shoulders!" he concluded and with a raucous laugh he staggered off.

Peter watched him walk into the distance disappearing into what looked like another pub and sighed loudly, taking up his position propping up the lamppost again.

Looking skywards once more, fascinated by the tower, the arms on the church clock hadn't moved. Now he had no idea how long he had been standing here, the imposing spire in front of him just taunted him again. He yawned and rubbed his eyes, hands filthy, gritty and grimy, earth and mud pounded into his skin by weeks of sleeping in barns and outhouses, just anywhere that looked safe for a few hours rest.

He heard a quiet, quick whistle and looked to its source. Private Jack Henry Johnson, otherwise known as Riley; six foot tall exactly with piercing green eyes that attracted the girls from miles around and he certainly knew it. Peter's mate since he was three years of age; doing up his flies as he emerged from the stinking alley.

"Her names Amorette" he started, walking over with a confident swagger. "Givin' a little love to her Allies" Jack concluded with a smug grin, tapping his mouth knowingly. "Says she quite likes the look of you…." How she did that Peter didn't know as Jack didn't know a word of French, apart from 'cigarette' and any fool could get that one right.

"No thanks" Peter replied, shaking his head. He was an engaged man and Jeanie was the only thing that kept him going. He certainly had no plans to be throwing that away or, if he did come home, living with the guilt. Peter might only have been nineteen but he knew he loved her and he'd never face her again.

Jack, however, just laughed at him. He might be his long time mate but sometimes that Noakes lad could be a right prude. "I know you've got little Jeanie at home but what she don't know won't hurt her. Go on!" he encouraged, nudging Peter in the arm. "The other one's called Louise".

Peter shook his head again. There might have only been six months between them – Jack being the elder – but it sometimes seemed like years if their behaviour was anything to go by and did he really want to be caught up an alley with a whore?

_'Respect women, son. You'll get your reward'_. His Dad's words lingered in his mind, seeing the other soldier emerge, too shifting his uniform around. Private George Thomas Cooper, otherwise known as 'Coops'; from south of the water with an accent to match, but no-one held it against him.

"Took yer time mate" Jack offered, his arm going around the third soldier's shoulder, thumping him on the chest evidently in some form of congratulation as the two girls, bedecked in black, wandered away, blowing kisses and waving at their soldiers.

"Yeah well" Coops began, "some of us don't fire as early as the others! Drink?"

"Don' see why not…." Jack replied, hooking Peter under his other arm, dragging him forcibly into the road. "Vat looks like a good place to start" he said, gesturing vaguely to a small pub across the way with its windows smashed and blacked out. They could all hear music, tortured it would seem, from squeeze box as it drifted from the building with a piano in need of a rather urgent tune competing in the background.

Peter sighed as he was hauled through the door, taking one last glance at the clock face above him as it bore down over the greasy streets of this nameless town.

No, he thought as the screeching 'music' pierced his eardrums, those golden hands still hadn't moved.


	2. Chapter 2

**Couple of strong swears in this one...you have been warned ;)**

It had been an uncomfortable night, put up – for want of a better expression – on the floor of the pub, drinking bitter coffee and eating sugary crepes as dawn broke around him. Not that anyone truly minded with regard to the quality of the provisions. It was hot food and drink and shelter and it could have been champagne and strawberries in any other circumstance. Not that Peter had actually ever drunk champagne and might never want to, but food was food and coffee was coffee even though it scorched his throat and left a horrendous mordant taste on his un-brushed teeth.

He had slept on hard floorboards, the small comfort of a cushion under his head. No matter what had been roaming his mind as he stood in the street, sleep had engulfed him quickly, ears deaf to the row around him as he slipped into a corner and let everyone else drink themselves into oblivion.

No orders had arrived overnight, for once most slept, and now morning was upon them Peter scrubbed his face from a tin bowl left on the bar, seeing days of grime filter into the water as he hauled a rough towel from beside it. Patting his face dry he looked up as the front door swung open wildly and crashed against the wall.

"Alright you lot!" he heard from the doorway, having seconds to relish the warmth of the water before the interruption. "Moving out!"

The rumble of cursing, thumping of feet and back chat was enough. "I said we are moving out!" the Sergeant screamed over the din. "So move yourselves!"

"Where we goin' Sarge?" Peter heard as they trudged out of the pub in a line to the still rather quite dark street.

'Somewhere' was the flat response as the group was pushed along, thumped to get them moving.

"Not funny Sarge" someone else deadpanned. "Come on Sir, where we goin'?"

"As I said for me to know and you lot to find out when you get there!" the Sergeant replied. "Now move yourselves!"

Peter stepped out into street, the sun still not quite peaking over the horizon and looked up; no those golden hands were still rigid against the clock face. He had hoped they might have moved, but no, still frozen as he stared up.

Three troop carriers were lined up outside the pub. He was hauled into the second; the last one in as the tarpaulin was pulled down, plunging them into semi darkness. Two more had left already and were rolling up the main road out of the village towards a destination only known by a few and not by those shoved into the back.

As the truck lurched underneath them someone, some wit, down the other end started whistling 'It's a long way to Tipperary' followed by another voice chiming in, singing this time under his breath:

_That's the wrong way to tickle Mary,_

_That's the wrong way to kiss._

_Don't you know that over here, lad_

_They like it best like this._

_Hooray pour Les Français_

_Farewell Angleterre._

_We didn't know how to tickle Mary,_

_But we learnt how over there._

"Keep it down Smith mate" another voice whispered. "Don't know whose listening!" No-one was really in the mood to be singing, all exhausted, filthy and hungry and even though he knew whoever the source of the song was was trying their best, it was no good.

They must have been driving half an hour maybe more when the truck slowed to an almost halt and Jack, who had been sitting opposite Peter, gently raised the edge of the tarpaulin to see out. The sun had come up further into the sky but it was still too early.

"Anything?" Peter asked, seeing his friend shake his head. "Mud an' farms an' annover truck...Nuffink" he replied, seeing the third truck quite some yards behind them. Peter sighed, resting his head on the metal rim next to him, squashed in a truck far too full of bodies as they lined the sides and the floor, feeling someone's elbow jab him in the side. It was hot and sticky, all these men shoved into one place, the smell of cigarette smoke making its way down to him from the other end; someone still whistling tunelessly and a cigarette being passed hand to hand.

By the time Jack had turned back the truck had ground to a halt completely, probably thirty or so feet from the first one. In the silence they could hear the third truck slowly moving behind them but the land around them was quiet of people; eerily hushed. They knew not to move unless ordered so they waited, assuming they were where they needed to be and they would be ordered from the truck soon enough. Then it happened.

An explosion directly in front of them, shaking the truck and its occupants as the ground underneath them took on earthquake proportions, the rippling, juddering as it destroyed its target sending the first truck crammed with men into a ball of flame.

"That was us" someone whispered as they realised what was going on around them. The word 'ambush' was also heard as twelve bodies flew out of the back of the middle truck, crashing to the ground, finding anywhere they could to shelter before the inevitable fight back would be brought up on them.

A second later, another explosion ripped through the air above him as he ran and Peter found himself forced face down in the mud at the side of the road, the vibration rippling from head to toe even though he was quite the way away. Every fibre of his body felt the speed of the explosion, almost not realising it was done until it was done and over, raising his head to see the third truck up in flames. He lay face down on the ground, breathing in the sodden earth, listening for footsteps, the feel of a gun pressed to the back of his head or that last bullet.

To his left he heard a rustle and, saw someone or something moving, scrambling for his pistol from his side, ready to shoot if he had to.

"North" he heard whispered, quietly.

"Jesus, Coops!" Peter replied, feeling the other man's hand on his shoulder, pulling him up off the ground and drag him behind a wall, finding Jack there too, blood coursing down his face from where he had been thrown by the force of the second explosion.

"Ve answer is mean' to be 'west' you brainless fucker" Jack replied, casually, looking back over the wall to see if anyone else was around, dragging Peter by the arm so they were not seen.

"Looks like mines" George said, crouching down next to the two other men. "There isn't a fritz for miles". Nobody wanted to smell burning petrol as the grey smoke spiralled into the sky, disguising what would be scorched flesh underneath it.

Peter felt the security of the wall, behind him, soaking wet moss leaching to his back as he breathed through adrenaline running. "How did we not….?"

"Jonno was driving" George said, fiddling for his pistol as they were going to need it, not bothering to try to disguise the tremor in his hands. "You know he can't drive in a straight line for toffee. Must have missed them or we were just lucky".

"So where the fuck are we?" Riley asked, swiping mud from his face, not realising there was blood mixed within it too.

"How the hell should I know?" Peter replied, eyes scanning anywhere that may be safe, not feeling his heart rate might slow any time soon. The sky was dead again, lines of trees in the distance, no lights although the flames that engulfed the trucks were no by means ebbed as Peter kneeled up and saw them burning still a few hundred yards back. Who the hell got out of the that he would never know, if anyone at all. People he'd known for a few weeks, days in cases, he would never see again. There was no opportunity, no time to think or feel, self preservation suddenly paramount as he ran and it was almost as though they were never there as both trucks burned behind them.

"Is there anybody else?" Peter asked.

Jack shook his head. "Vey didn't 'ave a chance. Fink I saw a few run off in vat direction" he stated, gesturing generally over the other side of the road, "but….how many bullets do you 'ave?"

"Depends on if we get caught" George quipped as he saw the other two men cast their eyes around for anywhere they could camp out.

"Fink I saw a barn back there" Jack replied, pointing ahead of them. It had been hidden by trees but it would at least provide them with shelter. If there was a house nearby and abandoned as most were, they could find all things.

"Shall we go for it?" Peter asked. They were vulnerable, Lord knows how many more mines were buried in that road and at least if they were under cover they might stand a chance. Jack just looked at him.

"Or get blown to bits like vose poor buggers? What's ve worst we get? An angry Frenchman?"

They ran across the field, keeping low, not wanting to look back and think about the comrades they left behind, knowing it would haunt them in their dreams one day as the smell of burning flesh became apparent as they crossed back and away.

The barn door was slightly ajar as the three crept around the side, seeing it open a crack. Someone clearly lived here, chickens running around the yard, a rusting motorcycle by the front door. The house, only a quick walk from the barn with its curtains still closed but they would never find it lit up if the owners had sense.

"It looks clear" Jack whispered, having stuck his head through the gap in the door. A few more chickens, but none that took much notice of the stranger as he walked into their domain. Hay was piled high and a ladder led to a high loft above as the other two followed, realising the door wouldn't close properly behind them, but it was under cover and dry and nothing really else mattered.

"So now what do we do?" George asked, looking over the roof.

"Well don't know what you're doin' but I'm goin' up 'ere in ve dry an' warm" Jack replied stepping up the ladder. "Wait up 'ere for darkness an' 'ave a well earned sleep. Ven we can wire vat motorbike an' go back to ve village".

All three ended up in the hayloft, buried up to their necks to stay warm, to avoid detection and sleep they did.

Peter, in dreams that had engulfed him fast, thought he felt someone kick him on the leg. He protested a little and the kick came again; harder this time. It was not violent by any means, but enough to bring him from slumber.

He opened his bleary eyes to the barrel of a gun.


	3. Chapter 3

Peter opened his eyes, trying to take in the sight of the gun, perhaps three inches from his face. Above him, someone stood, and as his vision cleared he realised it was a woman.

Woman? Well more like a girl of fourteen, fifteen if she was lucky; neat brown bobbed hair hanging off her face as she stared down at him, finger on the trigger and on the face of it ready to fire.

"Allemand?" she whispered, Peter seeing out of the corner of his eye that his comrades were still asleep deeper into the hayloft; only where he knew where they were. He mustn't give them away and she certainly hadn't found them yet it seemed. Allemand though? That meant 'German'. She must think he was a German.

He shook his head vehemently, trying to sit up without her thinking he was going for her. "No…" Peter replied, keeping his voice as calm and as low as possible for fear of a frightened shot. "Non….erm" he stuttered, trying to think as well. "Angleterre". Sometimes those songs came in useful although his mind was running ten to the dozen trying to think if he had anything in his kit bag, still slung over his body, that might identify him as English.

The girl eyed him suspiciously and roughly pulled some of the hay that had been covering him away, yanking the pistol out of its holder at his waist. He had buried his rifle in the hay too and she gestured with the gun down the ladder so he knew he had to move. He'd seen that look in people's eye before and any false move and that trigger would have been pulled.

"Angleterre?" she replied, looking him up and down as they reached the bottom of the ladder.

"Yes. Oui" Peter responded, turning round as he was backed towards the barn wall. That just about extended him to the entirety of his knowledge of the French language as outside he heard the rumble of an engine and it cut out just outside the door.

"Isobelle?" came another woman's voice. "Isobelle? Où êtes-vous?"

"Ici!" the younger girl replied, pushing Peter in the chest up with the barrel of the gun and he slid down to his haunches. "Dans la grange!"

He saw the small door open and another girl; no a woman, walk in, tall, wearing spectacles and the same brown hair, longer and tied neatly at the neck. Buxom he believed was the word he was looking for and she was_ perfect_. So unlike Jeanie, but she was _perfect _in every way possible.

"Que faites-vous idiote?!" the older woman exclaimed snapping him out of his haze, Peter hearing the horror in her voice as she snatched the gun away from where it had been pointed at his forehead and his pistol out of the girl's other hand. He breathed a sigh of relief for a moment only to find the pistol, now in the elder's hand, pointing as his temple. "Allemand?" the older woman asked the younger.

"Anglais" she replied.

"Anglais?" came the intrigued response. "What is your name?" she asked.

"Peter" he said pleased that she at least had some words of English and if he complied with whatever she wanted, as he knew that pistol was loaded, he may just get away from here relatively unscathed and back into town if they could get their hands on that motorbike.

"Peter" the older girl considered. She was too young to be the child's mother. Sister, maybe? She whispered something that made the younger girl nod quickly and run from the barn.

"English soldier?" she began in a thick accent, looking him up and down. "It's not many a day you find one of you…."

"You speak English?" Peter asked, knowing it was a stupid question.

"Yes" she replied, fingers still flexing around the gun as she stood over him. "Or does it sound Dutch or Flemish to you?" A sarcastic Frenchwoman carrying a gun; two guns in fact. What more could he want?

"Alone?" she asked. Peter nodded quickly as that pistol was still far too close. "You came from the…." She struggled for the world. "Feu…Fire?"

"Yes" Peter stuttered. "The trucks that were blown up".

"I saw", she said, Peter realising she must have been the one riding the motorbike that he heard stop outside. He could hear sadness in her voice though and he wondered how much death she had seen herself. Most buildings that they had seen were near on ruin and what they saw of the farm house told them it needed repair. "I saw men run".

"A lot of them? Many?" he asked, hoping that they had been more survivors. "Four, perhaps five. Up!" He struggled to his feet feeling her hand under his elbow. Not gentle, but certainly not as rough as the other had been. "You want food?" she asked and he was flummoxed for a second. "English are our friends, no? Beside, I have your gun! Walk..."

She closed the door of the barn behind them, Peter still conscious of the fact he could see the brandished gun over his right shoulder until she opened up the door that led straight into the kitchen. "Sit" she said, gesturing at the table. He could smell freshly baked bread and, as a mug of coffee and a plate full of different breads and cheese was put in front of him, he felt guilty; picking up a roll as she placed a small pat of butter beside the plate, thinking he was about to tuck in when he had two friends, probably asleep but just as hungry as he was. He rested his hand back on the table.

"So you are tell me it's not one of you?" she asked, picking up a cloth as he looked up at her. "How many hiding?"

"Two" Peter replied. "Upstairs in the hayloft"

"'ayloft?" she asked, not understand that. She knew a lot of English words, even though her comprehension and grammar may not necessarily be spot on all the time, but 'hayloft' was new.

"In the…grange…." He replied, pointing out towards the barn and upwards.

She sighed, thumping the washcloth down into the sink. "For you I will not shoot. Yet. Now eat!" Peter took up his cup of sweet coffee and watched her move out of the doorway as he breathed in the smell, warming his hands. Why she found to trust him he would never know. He wouldn't hurt her,_ he_ knew that but how did she know?

It was moments later that Jack and George were shoved through the farmhouse door.

"Easy darlin'" Jack said, brushing down his sleeves in disgust at being manhandled and forced down into one of the kitchen chairs. George sat too, still half asleep. "Oh I see it!" Jack continued, seeing Peter dig into the bread, that was in fact slightly warm and just _heaven_. "What you been up to to get vat? Bin offerin' your favours? Don't tell me it was to vat huge one over there an' not ve pretty one?" He gestured over the other side of the room towards the girl who Peter still did not know what she was called.

"Jack…" Peter spat, spearing a piece of cheese with his fork, knowing she probably would understand most of what was being said about her. "Shut your mouth".

"Fuck off" he replied. "I much prefer the pretty little one that found you first".

"Found me first….?" Peter responded putting his fork down. "You were _awake_ and you let that girl just put a gun to my head?!" Peter held his tongue, seeing his coffee cup get filled up a second time.

"I thought" Jack started, "that if we showed up ven she might just pull vat trigger. She looked mad enough! She looked even more beautiful wiv anger in 'er eyes!"

Peter breathed, still seeing the other girl pottering around, looking like she was preparing them some breakfast too. "Coops?"

"Don't look at me" he replied, scratching his day old beard. "I slept right through it and have just been rudely awoken with a pitchfork". Peter nearly laughed at the image as plates were put down beside his comrades and they were handed tin mugs too.

"So what's she said to you?" Jack asked, watching the woman as she walked around the sparse kitchen, tidying, putting dishes in the water.

"Not a lot" Peter replied, going back to the plate of bread and cheese.

"I still like the look of other one" Jack offered.

"Mate, don't. She's a child" George replied, gnawing his way through a buttered roll, as Jack just huffed and picked up a knife to dig into the food, seeing the younger girl arrive into the kitchen.

"Qu'allons-nous faire avec eux sœur?" Isobelle said, looking suspiciously at all three of them as they ate as though they had not seen food in weeks.

"Leur donner plus de café" she replied, her back to them, "et de leur offrir la salle de bain. Ils sont sales. Bouillir de l'eau et de voir si vous pouvez trouver le nouveau savon".

George was listening intently. "Something about what are we going to do with them, we're filthy, boiling water and soap and the bathroom", he whispered to the others, smiling up at Isobelle who had picked up the kettle and pushing the tin cup towards her. She actually smiled in response. "Starting off with more coffee though".

"How did you understand all of that?" Peter asked.

"My grandmother was French" George replied. "Can't say I'll get it all but…" he shrugged his shoulders and smiled at the girl again. "Merci beaucoup".

"An' you" the older girl replied, pointing between Jack and George, "can 'elp my sister carry the bath an' the water".

The three finished eating and as he heard the dishes going into the sink Peter wondered why she had not asked him to help. "Do you trust them with your sister?" he asked, seeing her turn and smile at him. "That's she's safe?"

"That's why she keeps the pistol and I do not have it? Yes?" she replied. "The rifle has no bullets".

Peter smiled getting up and walking across to where she was standing. She was pretty underneath those glasses; he was quite right. "Do you live here alone?"

"Isobelle. She is my sister. She has heart like fire. Papa. He was shot. Here" she said patting her own heart, shaking water off one of their dishes. "By a Frenchman".

"When?" Peter asked. There was clearly no sign of a mother either and it seemed that these two girls were all alone.

"Janvier. January" she replied, recalling that day far too well, hearing the commotion and finding her father's body in the yard and two men running away. She recognised the uniform and she knew. "The first day, he died."

Peter nodded solemnly. "I don't even know your name".

"Camille" she replied simply as he stood beside her, leaning against a worktop that he was not entirely sure would take his weight.

"Camille" he repeated. "Where did you learn English?" Peter asked.

"From books" she replied quietly. "Not from school. I stopped when I was fourteen. When the War she is over..."

"Is over" he corrected. "When the war is over. It isn't a man or woman".

"When the war _is_ over" she repeated. "I am coming to England".

"Going" he said, again, unable to stop correcting her. English was the only subject at school that he liked and she didn't seem to mind him chipping in.

"Going to England to be teacher or nurse". She had decided after Papa died that she needed to make a life for herself outside this farm, outside this village, otherwise she would be stranded here for life. She wanted to spread her wings and explore and London seemed such an interesting place from the pictures she had seen in magazines.

"What about Isobelle?" Peter asked, thinking she was now playing parent to her younger sister.

"She will be married" she replied matter of factly. There was already a boy in town that she knew had his eye on her sister and he seemed respectful enough that she might allow a liaison.

"Won't you?" he questioned.

She just looked at him and laughed.


	4. Chapter 4

The three men sat in the yard of the farmhouse, chickens wandering and clucking around their feet. Bathed, in fact, scrubbed, hair washed and stomachs full, the sun was coming out as the hours crept on and they were relishing the glorious rays on their faces, heads tipped back to the sky. Socks were drying on a line and undershirts with them and the three were watching the soft white clouds as they circled above. From where they were they could not see the road or the trucks that were now charred and black; the middle truck stranded between them with its collateral damage.

"So what do we do?" George asked, breaking the silence as he shooed away a chicken with his foot that wandered too close.

"I vote for 'ospitality until someone comes an' finds us" Jack replied. "Even if I 'ave to do it wiv a gun at me neck". He did not appreciate the girls and their rather free use of weapons.

"Do you think they'll have realised the trucks have not shown up where we were s'pose to be going?" Peter asked, pulling his injured foot over his other knee to take the pressure off.

"Give 'em a few 'ours" Jack replied, shrugging his shoulders, going back to staring at the sky, "an' we might just get found regardless".

"I vote we stay" George responded having thought it over. "If she's that generous with breakfast, think about lunch and dinner!"

"Yeah well you can thank our friend Noakes 'ere for that" Jack smiled, putting is arm around Peter's shoulder. "Charmin' ve French girls even vo 'e's got a missus at 'ome".

"I was civil to her" Peter replied coldly, shoving the arm away to make his point. "More than you are to that sister of hers".

"I want to know why she's being so nice to us" George wondered.

"We're allies mate. Don't you remember lovely Louise an' Amorette?" Jack replied. That younger sister looked, to him, like she had an almighty temper on her when she was riled and he wouldn't mind sampling some of that before he left.

"Those two are nothing like them!" Peter responded, seeing George nodding in agreement; both wondering about Jack from time to time. Peter knew him; been friends since they could barely walk but sometimes he wanted to shake him too. George had known him a matter of weeks and felt entirely the same.

"No mate" George continued shaking his head vehemently. "These two wouldn't touch us three with a fifty foot barge pole. Gun barrel maybe but not a barge pole".

"Eggs. Get. Wood too" came a voice from beside them. None of them had noticed that Camille had walked up and was standing by Peter as they were considering her sister. She held out a basket towards Jack and an axe towards George as the former looked up at her. "A little thank you might 'elp darlin'"

"No" she replied. "You thank me for not shooting you and giving you food". She could see George trying not to laugh and keep a straight face as he reached across for the axe and as soon as they had walked off Camille sat beside Peter.

"Can I ask a question?" Peter asked, seeing her nod. "Where does the food come from?" He knew about rationing back home but there seemed to be an abundance of food here if the shelves in the kitchen had been anything to go by and he was curious as to its origins.

"We make the bread and we have the chickens, for eggs and to kill. Trees for wood. Vegetables we grow…The.." she began, but stopped immediately realising she might be saying something she shouldn't although she could see he was expectant for an answer and she had to decide in a split second whether she could trust him. She decided that she would. "In the village" she continued. "For everything else, there is a man who….."

"Gets food?"

"Yes" she replied. "He is my father's cousin. I think it is all something the police would not like, but I do not care anymore. We have to live".

Peter nodded. At least they could rely on Army rations, as grim as some of it was, but it was food that was freely available, there for them and he understood what she was saying. He put his foot flat on the floor and winced immediately, not thinking. He probably shouldn't have done but he had dare not put his foot into the hot water. Trying once and he had nearly flown from the bath with the pain that shot up his leg and even now with a borrowed pair of dead man's socks on his feet keeping the old bandage on, he had been trying to keep his foot off the dirt yard. As soon as they got back to civilisation he would have to find the doc but he had been distracted and moved to place his foot on the floor and regretted it.

"There was…." She couldn't think of the word, meaning to say blood that she had scrubbed from his sock. "Hurt? Your foot?"

"A blister"

"Blister?" she replied, copying him, but shaking her head and he really didn't know how to explain it to her.

"I see?" she questioned holding out her hand as Peter took off the sock and bandage that clearly needed changing, revealing the injury. He hadn't looked recently as he just didn't want to see what kind of state it was in.

"Ah!" she said, taking one look across the yard to see the other two were working away. "Come, I will make clean".

He hobbled after her to the sitting room where she went away to return with an immaculate tin box, opening it up to finding medical supplies, bandages, antiseptic, boric lint and cotton wool; all written nicely in English on the packaging.

He had sat down and she patted her knee so he could put his foot up. "My sister, me, we always cut us or hurt us when we work on the land" she offered, noting the ball of his foot was red raw now, skinned entirely as she cast her eye over it. She knew how to dress a wound like that; she had read how to do it. Peter breathed hard as she dabbed the antiseptic around the wound.

"I will be fast" she promised, ever so carefully wiping the sole of his foot, taking as much time as perhaps pain would allow, until she was sure it was clean and watching his face for any sign he was in distress. Satisfied it was; she took the lint and then a bandage, gently holding the lint in place as she wound the bandage around. She'd be a good nurse.

"You'll be a good nurse" Peter said, deciding to put his thoughts into words. "You should go to London to nurse not teach".

She smiled shyly at him. "I think you are ready" she continued, securing the fresh bandage around his foot and putting the sock back on. She lifted his leg from her lap and got up. "Stand?" she questioning holding out her hand so he could follow her and he stood, testing his foot out, feeling the skin stretch. A little bit of care went a long way and that did feel better!

She smiled at him again as he held onto both of her hands, probably for longer than was respectable getting himself steady, almost in slow motion as he looked up at her and they stood in the middle of the sitting room like statues.

_Let go of her hands, you fool! Remember Jeanie!_

_She is so perfect, though  
_

_You have a fiancée, so stop it!_

_Yes, but..._

She must have heard his inner thoughts as she nodded quickly and broke eye contact, taking her hands with her. "You want me to ride to the village tomorrow to see if I can find someone like you? Other soldiers?" she asked, walking away from him to the kitchen.

"I…" Peter replied, teetering after her as quickly as he could, "I don't know where we were being taken. Just down that main road".

"Well you drive for one hour, then you find the roads they go like this" she said, making the gesture of a 'X' junction with her hands before she filled up the kettle for the stove. "If you take left you go to Abbeville, take right you go to Arras, go forward you to St Omer, Ypres…towards Belgique..Belgium".

Peter nodded silently, realising immediately where their destination was. "It was probably into Belgium".

"Do you like me to go into the village tomorrow?" she asked, bustling around him as he stood. He wanted to say 'no, not really' but also knew that they had to find the rest, or perhaps the remains, of his division or at least some more English troops somewhere, but before he could respond the kitchen door opened and George wandered in with armfuls of perfectly cut wood for the fire.

"I ask you do the wood all the time?" she smiled at him, really quite impressed as Peter stood to her side as he placed it all in the quiet hearth and Jack appeared too with the basket full of eggs. Again, she was rather impressed and perhaps a little astonished.

"Vere you go!" Jack announced. "Are vose your cows an' pigs?"

"The cows yes, she is ours. We get milk and the pig, yes, we do not kill..she is a…. animal de compagnie". Three tin mugs were placed on the table.

"A pet" George added quickly seeing she had lost the word. "A pet" she repeated.

"Camille?" she heard from up the rickety staircase at the back of the sitting room, Isobelle's voice drifting down to her.

"Oui?" she said, walking toward where her sister was standing at the top of the stairs.

"Où vont-ils dormir?" Isobelle's voice came, her just seeing them vaguely through the gap in the door to the kitchen and still highly suspicious of them all but that Jack one particularly.

Camille thought for a second. "L'ancienne chambre de papa. Ils ne peuvent pas dormir dans la grange et je vais dans le village demain pour retrouver leurs camarades. Je vais venir". They heard her go upstairs.

"Well?" Peter asked, expecting at least a rough idea from George as to what was said. All three had sat at the kitchen table. "It seems we will be sleeping in a bed tonight! The father's old room and then she is going to the village tomorrow to see if she can find anyone to get us back to where we came from".

Peter nodded, really feeling quite inexplicably sad about the whole thing that he might only have these precious hours in her company. He didn't want to try to reason it to himself and Jeanie felt a lifetime away. "She said that before".

Jack only had one answer for it. "Well as we are 'ere for ve night, anyone gettin' vat kettle off ve stove?"


	5. Chapter 5

Peter yawned, trying to hide it behind his hand but failing. "What time is it?" he asked as all three sat in the tidy living room; the sisters off somewhere else.

"Nearly ten" George replied, stifling a yawn himself, before stretching his legs in his seat by the window, closed away behind shutters. "I need a bed".

When they got upstairs, they hadn't realised it was a small brass single bed that was on offer and after tossing a coin, George won the bed and between Jack and Peter it was two mattresses on the floor. Neither cared though – it was dry, warm and far better than a hayloft – and Peter quickly pulled the thick blue blankets he had been given up and over his shoulder, revelling in the cosiness he had created and the warmth that engulfed him. For once, in too many days and nights, he actually felt safe. With it being the beginnings of Summer, it was still quite light too but nobody cared at this sudden almost luxury they had been offered and proper sleep seemed to be calling all three for a change.

The sisters were still downstairs and Peter could hear them conversing in words he did not completely understand but for once, Peter was too comfortable to be concerned and he slept welcome sleep.

It was one of those times though where he woke, thinking he had been asleep for hours on end, but as he glanced at the clock on the wall, it was just past midnight and he had not been asleep for very long at all. Peter sighed as he opened his eyes properly, hearing the other two snoring away beside him, now wide awake and feeling as though he had slept for days. A vague light was still in the interior hallway downstairs and pulling on a jumper – again 'borrowed' from their father – and his army combats, boots not laced, he quietly opened the door and crept towards the source of the glow.

There was nobody there though and for the first time he was able to take in the sparse décor of the kitchen, painted olive green at its walls and the cracks in the black and white tiled floor under his feet. He carefully inspected the line of round tin containers in the dresser, each identifying its content – sugar, coffee , tea – he could tell what they were. The tins were well worn from use and they so much reminded him of home. Mum with her immaculate kitchen and the magic she would create from within it.

Peter shivered, feeling suddenly rather alone, and stepped carefully through the kitchen, not wanting to dwell too much. He passed out of the open door to the yard when he saw Camille walking back towards him.

"I was just being sure the animals were all ready for the night" she smiled as they met up in the middle, the crunch of gravel under foot.

"Are they?" he asked, genuinely interested. He loved his uncle's farm as a kid. _No, stop it, stop thinking of home!_

"They are" she replied, going to walk past him until she felt a hand rest on her arm, just lingering close to her wrist.

"Would you like to sit out with me?" Peter asked, knowing he was probably taking a liberty but why not? "It's still warm" he concluded. Whenever he saw her she was always on her feet doing something and she never seemed to rest, even for a handful of minutes and she seemed to deserve some moments to herself.

Camille looked skywards for a moment. There was a _mountain_ of jobs that she needed to do tonight before she would allow herself to sleep but a few moments wouldn't hurt, surely? She nodded at him and they sat on a low wall, edging her beloved vegetable patch, just watching that sky again as it slowly darkened around them. He found himself staring the six inch gap between his knee and hers. Wondering.

"Peter?" she asked after some moments of quiet. "When you go to home…"

"Will I?" he replied, interrupting her, the thought in the forefront of his mind with her words. All of his mates in those trucks might have thought that the other morning that their chances of going home were still pretty good so what did he know? Life turns some ways sometime and would he be one of those lucky ones to go home?

"You will go home. Take my words" she said, seeing him smile sadly and nod, just the once. "When you go home, what do you want to do after the War is over?"

Peter hadn't really thought about it. Get another job - not the paint shop this time - marry Jean, have a family. They were the things that everyone else did so that was probably the way his life was going to unfold too. There was no reason for it not to if he did reach the shores of England again. He did have some ambition within him, but at what he was still really not quite sure.

"I suppose I will get another job. Dad used to work in the docks". He had nothing else really to say as he stared out into the night. "I'll probably do that too".

"Docks?" she asked, crossing one leg over the other, not knowing what one of those was.

"Where the ships go. Or in shop or something" he added, shrugging his shoulders watching her foot; even closer to his now as it dangled over her knee. He shook his head quickly to purge the thought and send himself back to her question.

Peter knew his education didn't extend to working in the Civil Service and neither did his attention span to be honest. The last thing he wanted to be doing was sitting behind a desk for the rest of his life, shifting paper from one side to the other. "You will certainly come to London?" he asked.

"Yes" she replied. "I want to go so I will go. Nothing will stop me". He was impressed by how determined she seemed to be.

"Why are you being so kind to us?" he asked, having needed to ask question for quite some time now. "You could have just shot us?"

"I know" she replied, turning to smile at him, eyes searching every inch of his face, "but I have trust. In you. I think like I know you". Unbeknownst to her it was something that had struck him too. She trusted him; had faith in those eyes from the second she found him crouched down in the barn with a gun to his head.

A quick smile played across Peter's lips in return, holding her gaze and entirely unable to break away. That was exactly what had been lingering in his mind too - a familiarity that he couldn't place; a comfortable feeling as though he could tell her anything and she would understand him immediately even with the barrier of language. It was like he had known her soul from a day gone long ago. She didn't feel like the stranger she was to him.

"You will go home and get married, though? No?" she asked, shifting around again, unconsciously moving so she was almost turned to face him. It was impossible after all that anything else could even occur.

"How did you know about that?" Peter questioned, really rather surprised and alarmed to boot.

"Your friends. They're voices are noisy" Camille replied.

He saw a slight shrug of her shoulders, almost nonchalant, and it made him wonder. "What else did you hear?" he asked, sending up a prayer that she had not overheard some of the comments that Jack, particularly, had spouted regarding both of them.

"Too much?" she questioned, laughing ironically. "That the tall one likes Isobelle but not me, but that is alright" Camille concluded.

"Is it?" Peter asked. She must know her own sister after all but really? Was she so unconcerned by the derogatory comments?

"Yes" she replied. "Isobelle is not frightened of anyone. She will tell him to go away. She is braver than me". Camille saw him nod carefully. He was not so sure about 'bravery' or what indeed constituted such a description, but to be alone with only your sister - being her mother it seemed - running a house under the risk of something falling from the sky come day or night? She was pluckier than she thought.

"What other things did you hear?" he asked tentatively, worried she might also have heard some of the remarks about him and her, even though they were in jest, but still. Perhaps he might not have been so touchy about them if there wasn't this _something_ he couldn't describe that was rooting him to this spot, willing time to just stop so he could talk to her.

"Some things that do not concern me" she replied. "These things I hear before".

"Well, whatever you heard, so you know, I don't agree with them. I think they are wrong" he said firmly.

"Thank you" she smiled, not used to compliments.

"It's alright" Peter replied quietly, staring across the yard towards the dirt track that led up to the house. He moved his hand, not particularly thinking of anything than just her company, taking a gentle hold of the fingers that were resting in her lap. Her hands could have been chapped and scarred from the work she did around the house and farm, but they were as soft as anything.

"Non" she said quickly, placing other her hand on his, gently moving his back. "No. It is not possible".

"Why not?" Peter asked. It wasn't as though he had tried to jump on her or even give her a peck on the cheek, but it was just so compelling the need to feel close to her. England, and what may or may not be waiting for him there, suddenly felt more than the few hundred miles away that it was, and he didn't want to move. If she were to confess, she didn't want him to go either but life here was difficult enough and she did not need this complication. Even though she might _want_ it.

"You are to be married man and…." she paused, struggling against what her soul was willing to her say to him. "As much as I cannot find the reason for why my heart knows you; we _cannot_". Camille saw him swallow and she truly wanted to cry. "Tomorrow I go into town to see if I can find help and you can…..Then you can go to wherever you are needed, yes?"

He nodded and she could see sadness that she was sure was only reflected in her eyes too. "Because you are needed just somewhere else first" she said, suddenly returning the squeeze that he gave her hand before she stood up and walked away, her words drifting away from him as she went.

"We say goodbye. We must".


	6. Chapter 6

They woke to the sound of a loud engine, growling away down below them in the yard. It sounded like a truck and George carefully opened the wooden blinds as the sun streaked into their temporary shelter and down below, saw the source of the noise. It was indeed a rather large truck pulling up outside the farmhouse.

"Blimey!" he remarked, seeing Peter come to stand beside him, also woken by the noise. "Cavalry has arrived!"

Peter's heart sunk as he saw Camille slip from the driver's seat, wind gently brushing at her hair and skirts. He knew what that meant. She had obviously been into town, that was their transport and they were leaving sooner rather than later. He placed his hand on one of the shutters, ostensibly to move it out of the way to get a better look but in reality it was to anchor himself to part of this house. It was useless trying to explain why so he wasn't going to and he hoped that George had not noticed how apprehensive he suddenly felt.

It was late though, almost eleven by the time they woke up so she had had a few hours on them and had obviously been busy.

Jack was nowhere to be seen and between them Peter and George washed quickly in the small bathroom and went downstairs hoping if there might be some food on offer. Peter approached the kitchen with caution, finding Jack with both sisters, dreading having to sit down as though he was hungry, this was the last time he would probably sit at this table. He'd only known her a few days, in unpleasant circumstances, but it felt as though he was leaving such a familiar place. Such a familiar person and he plainly just did not want that moment to arrive as he knew that amidst her promises she would come to London, what was the likelihood?

"Have breakfast" Camille said, laying plates out in front of them. Could he hear sadness in her voice or was his imagination running in overdrive?

"Did you go into town?" Peter asked tentatively, not wanting to hear the answer, even though he knew it was a 'yes'.

Camille nodded. "I find out that in this evening there are many soldiers coming to the village. Ones from England and there are your friends there too already".

"Some of our battalion?" George asked, a piece of bread on its way to his mouth, still wondering who had escaped from that almighty mess and really rather pleased to hear that some other than them had been found.

"Ones from the fire yes" she replied. "I spoke and they said they came back to the village yesterday. I told you were here and if I take you there today, you move to…." She paused, realising her mouth had run away with her.

"Move to?" Peter prompted them as she stood on the opposite side of the table to him, fingertips touching a cup she was about to pick up to wash.

"Belgique" she replied. "With them".

"Well at least we know where we are going this time!" George remarked, not seeing the glance between Peter and Camille who had now turned back to the sink.

An hour later, after washing the dishes and finding occupation for Isobelle, she had no idea where the soldiers had gone but, after an extremely short search, Camille found Peter sitting back on the low wall by her vegetable patch. He looked in a world of his own staring up at the sky again as she sat close next to him and for a moment he would readily state that he barely noticed her presence, watching the carefree fluffy white clouds instead.

Without a word though, when he realised she was there, he produced a shiny brass penny from his pocket. It always went with him for luck and Mum had made sure he had it in his pack when he left Poplar. He was not so daft to think it was a silly superstition, but if it made Mum feel better then that was fine.

"For you. To keep. For Luck" he said, pushing the coin into the palm of her hand. She picked it up, twirling it in between her fingers as it caught the mid-morning light.

"I remember you" she replied, watching him as he closed her fingers over the coin so it was encased in her palm again. He brought her hand up his lips, pressing them against her skin. It was goodbye.

"I'll remember you too" Peter replied, the words ringing in his ears as that late afternoon, heart sinking, he saw her drive away out of the village and only an hour later, having found a handful of his battalion put up in a shabby inn, he was standing guard again as dusk began to close around him.

Peter stared at the dried mud on his boots, eyes rising to that damn clock again as it loomed over him. No, several days later, those hands had still not moved an inch and it seemed neither had he. He sighed loudly, not caring remotely if either of his comrades thought that was a sign or not. Amorette and Louise had been found again and Peter just didn't want to know, standing rigid against the lamppost half watching out but too engulfed in his own thoughts to even care. The sky was lighter this time but his heart was by no means so.

What's changed in these few days? He'd never been one for religion or the hands of fate. That time Mum and had taken them both to the spiritualist church that had scared the life from his bones and he never really believed in that penny. He'd given it away to her though as a token, but a token of what? Peter was lonely; he knew that, surrounded by people but still not part of anything or anybody, until her. No matter where he went now – Belgium, Netherlands, wherever – he would always remember the farmhouse, a missing piece of his soul that he had found at last and these last few days were treasures.

"Do you know?" a voice came from his side, feeling George's arm go around his shoulder. "She was a lovely creature".

"Who?" Peter asked, thinking he meant one of the girls down that alley.

"Camille" George smiled. "I can see why you became….attached". He hadn't really been in the mood for Louise tonight. "But we have to go where we go. War doesn't let us stay where we want".

Peter nodded as George lent on the other side of the lamppost and they waited again.

"Being here" George carried on. "It's like a different time. It's almost as though I can't remember what London looks like. Can't remember what it feels like under my feet".

Peter had no words for it in response as droplets of rain fell from the sky. Mum used to say that was God crying when one of her sons had misbehaved but now Peter felt like following Him.

As soon as they stepped foot inside the pub, taking shelter against that rain that had started to mar the cobbles, they heard a shout ordering them into line. They were on their way back, shoved into the depths of a truck like cattle before any of them had even had the chance to sit down.

As they drove on, perhaps for half an hour, even inside a vehicle Peter could smell acrid smoke as they drove through the countryside. Last in again, not realising what route they had followed, he gently separated the tarpaulin that covered the back of the truck.

Peter's head shot around after seeing the charred remains of what looked like a British plane, still smoking as they drifted into the distance; the truck clattering along the dirt road. "Jonno mate? What happened?"

"Didn't you hear?" he said, too looking at the half demolished farm house where the plane had come to rest. "It came down last night the Sarge said. Just fell out of the sky apparently".

"That's farmhouse was where we were staying" Peter uttered dread scratching every inch of his skin, "Where we were…."

"Jesus" Jonno replied flatly, interrupting him. "Good luck you were out of there then!"

Peter watched the smoke rising and was almost sick as the vehicle jolted along, panic rising in his chest. Where was she? No-one could have made it out of there alive. He wanted to stop the truck, rush out, run across the fields and just be in this space she used to occupy. She had to be…He didn't want to think of the word so horrific and his mind began to race.

He knew about Jeanie, knew nothing would ever may or should come from it but as they drove further and further away he could feel the dissociation creeping up on him; not caring about England, not caring where he was going. He didn't pray much but as he stared at his hands, wishing he had taken the courage to kiss her goodbye, he only uttered one word.

_"Please"_

She pulled a blanket around her neck, eyes stinging from tears as she curled up in an armchair.

"Chère niece" her uncle said quietly, slippered feet walking across the floorboards of his sparse house. "Vous et Isobelle resterez nous aussi longtemps que vous avez besoin et que vous voulez . Cette guerre est mal".

Camille nodded at her elder relative, taking the cup of coffee that was presented to her, thankful for his offer to stay. They had nowhere and no-one else and how she had cried tonight. Her sister was still asleep, curled up on the settee opposite her and Camille was grateful she was peaceful.

How they found themselves here she would never know; never hearing the roaring engine of the plane as it spun, smoking, to the ground as they were with their uncle already, taking supplies to him that they had collected in the village after she delivered the soldiers. He had insisted they stay to eat and then, when it became dark, that they stayed for the night and how grateful she was that her uncle had been so adamant.

She had only learned about the crash when the police came to find her.

Seeing her uncle remove himself from the room, Camille reached into her pocket, not thinking she had left anything in there but it felt as though it was a coin. _The penny_. The brass 'luck' penny Peter had given her. Camille swallowed, not wanting to cry again but she couldn't help the tears that swept down her cheeks.

She'd wished he'd kissed her; even under the impossibility. Just the once then she would have that memory.

She pressed her lips to the coin hoping some of the luck, because she believed in things like fate, would travel back to him wherever he was going tonight and in the days to come.

Camille sighed, only one word in her head.

_"Please". _

FIN


End file.
